Wash the Sorrow from off My Skin
by Pigfarts23
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. A day passed. Then that day turned into days, which turned into double-digit days, which eventually spiralled off into the hundreds. John had no idea how he was doing it, living from one day to the next, barely surviving. One-shot.


Take me down to the river bend,  
Take me down to the fighting end,

John Watson had been in a war. He had seen countless deaths; some collegues, and, among them, some friends who had been so injured that by the time he had come to help them, they had died, the sands below absorbing the dark blood that leaked from them. Death was not a stranger to John Watson.

But as he stood infront of St. Bartholowmew's Hospital on that faithful day, death was a stranger to him. It had claimed someone whom had he believed to be invincible. And he had run, knowing subconciously that it was completely useless to try and help his friend. But he ran anyway. And then the cyclist hit him, and he was on the ground, soldiering on, trying to make it to Sherlock before he died. He had still hung on to the hope that somehow, somehow Sherlock had survived the fall. He was bloody Sherlock Holmes, for fuck's sake! If anyone could jump off a building and live, it would be him.

Wash the poison from off my skin,  
Show me how to be whole again.

But Sherlock was dead. His hand was there, and there was no pulse and John just couldn't anymore. He watched in mute horror as they took Sherlock into the hospital, his arm hanging off the gurney. His brain refused to believe what it was seeing, and there was a haze in his mind. He felt numb, and he couldn't think or walk or talk, he just stared, waiting, because he believed - no, he knew - that Sherlock still lived.

Fly me up on a silver wing  
Past the black where the sirens sing  
Warm me up in a nova's glow  
And drop me down to the dream below

John's life had been so colourful for the last eighteen months; since meeting this strange, eccentric man, actually. He had seen the world in a new light, and he felt truly **alive** everytime Sherlock went and did something stupid; everytime they were on a case, even when he was on limited food and sleep, he still felt so **alive **he felt as if he was cut off from reality, living in a fantsy world, **one big fairytale.**

Of course. **Moriarty. **He had read John like a book and had decided that he would use the fairytale to his advantage; it still hurt to think that the reason he was suffering all this pain and sorrow and anger was because of Moriarty. Moriarty had came, had seen, and had conquered, popping John's fantasy and harshly dropping him back to the ground.

Cause I'm only a crack in this castle of glass  
Hardly anything there for you to see.  
For you to see

The worst part was the first few days after the funeral. People treated him like a porcelin doll, afraid that if they even said Sherlock's name that he would break. He felt like he was part of a museum exhibit, titled The Numb: a showcase of people after they loose someone, or something as hideously titled as that. But all he wanted was for people to leave him alone. He wished, for a moment, that he could be like Sherlock and just close himself from all these people and sulk in the couch. His mother had taught him better manners then that, so he forced himself to greet people with a smile, even though he wished he could just kill them all. He was still John Watson, but now, he felt like he had eighteen months ago - lonely, depressed, and aching for something.

Bring me home in a blinding dream  
Through the secrets that I have seen

He moved in a dream-like state, constantly numb, not regestering emotions anymore. He barely remembered to feed himself, and everytime he made a cuppa, he felt like crying, as he always made two out of habit. So eventually, he stopped. He also had moved out of Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had understood why he had to - everytime he was in his former flat, he felt like screaming and crying and just smashing everything because he still knew that Sherlock was out there and Sherlock was being a right old git for not speaking to him and he just wanted to do something about it.

Wash the sorrow from off my skin,  
Teach me how to be whole again.

Mrs. Hudson thought that he was lonely, and decided to constantly set him up with various women who she happened to meet. There was usually a pretty lady on the arm of Mrs. Hudson when she popped over to his new, bare flat, and John, out of politness, usually took them for dinner. But that never worked. He was always thinking about Sherlock. He thought that maybe he needed more work, so he took on more work from the A&E, and tried to push Sherlock from his mind. That worked, only for a few hours though, for once he got back to his flat, he usually ended up having Sherlock invade his mind. That, of course, led to a sleepness night, and eventually he was on sleeping pills. For all the people he was always with, he felt empty, as if he were a solitary pea in a pod for two, or half of a friendship necklace; all he wanted was to be whole and alive again.

Cause I'm only a crack in this castle of glass  
Hardly anything there for you to see.  
For you to see

A day passed. Then that day turned into days, which turned into double-digit days, which eventually spiralled off into the hundreds. John had no idea how he was doing it, living from one day to the next, barely surviving. Somedays, he felt fine, other days, he didn't. Sometimes he imagined walking into his flat and finding Sherlock on his couch; he often was so convinced of this fact that he couldn't wait to go home. He'd envision their ensuing conversation.

"You've redecorated. I don't like it." A haughty look, contemptous eyes.

"I had no choice. You left." A punch, a searing pain in his right arm. A head going back, curls flying upwards dramatically. Then apologies, and an awkward hug.

"As usual, you see, but you do not observe." A strange look.

"Right, I'm an idiot." An affectionate sigh, but he'd feel warm, he'd feel whole.

"I did it for you."

And then John would get home, and find out that Sherlock was not sitting on his couch and he felt even worse than normal, and he felt broken, and alone. No longer feeling like a porcelin doll, or a solitary pea in a pod for two. No, he felt like he was the crack of a windshield of a car going top speed toward a crash. A miniscule crack; so small it was impossible to see. But it was there.

Cause I'm only a crack in this castle of glass  
Hardly anything else I need to be

When Sherlock would reappear, John knew that Sherlock would take him away from this course of distruction and save him from becoming a massive crack the windshield; Sherlock would fix his broken heart just by being Sherlock. John had realized it one day; he didn't just love Sherlock, as a platonic relationship - it was a heart-pounding love that he felt for the man, and that's why he felt the way he did when Sherlock jumped. It was also the reason why he knew that Sherlock would be coming back; he had felt it.

Then, one day, he clued into the fact that Sherlock was still alive - he had gone back to Baker Stree after almost two years, and found Sherlock's violin back in the flat. He rememebered giving it to Mycroft, so the fact that it was in the flat meant that Sherlock was alive. Not even his therapist could dissaude him from that.

First, he was mad that Sherlock didn't come and see him. Then he remembered the conversation he had envisioned so many times when he believed that Sherlock would be waiting for him, "I did it for you." And John knew, somehow, that if it was safe, Sherlock would be with him.

So he knew what he needed to be - his old, windshield-crack self. He had made it this far; he could wait just a bit more.

Cause I'm only a crack in this castle of glass  
Hardly anything there for you to see.  
For you to see  
For you to see

John Watson walked into his bare flat one day. He was tired, he was exhausted, and he still felt numb. He fought with his door, as per usual, and opened up the door, which groaned, as per usual. He deposited the keys into the key bowl right by the door and twisted to turn on the lights. Then he looked into his living room.

There, upon the couch, lay the late Sherlock Holmes, fully alive. As not per usual.

"You've redecorated. I don't like it." A haughty look, contemptous eyes.

"I had no choice. You left." A punch, a searing pain in his right arm. A head going back, curls flying upwards dramatically. Then apologies, and an awkward hug.

"As usual, you see, but you do not observe." A strange look.

"Right, I'm an idiot." An affectionate sigh, and he felt warm, he felt whole. No longer like a crack, he felt whole, like someone had taken him, a crack, and had sealed it, making it whole again.

"I did it for you." A look, understanding.

"Right." A nod.

And he was once again John Watson. Fully alive and ready to go.


End file.
